


paradise calling

by pensee



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alive Cole Anderson, Cole and Connor love video games, Everybody's Human AU, Future future or near future AU idk, Gen, Hank being Dense, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-04-24 09:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19170469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/pensee
Summary: An everybody's human, they-meet-on-vacation AU.





	1. Chapter 1

Hank’s come a long way from the drunken old fool who used to forget to pack his kid’s lunches or show up for work at noon. One time—one fucking time—Cole’s teacher called him about finding a lunchbox full of ketchup packets and half a carton of cigarettes, and he’d done a full one fucking eighty. Joined a program, tried to go on dates, didn’t think at all about Cole’s mother and all the things she would never be there to see their little boy do.

It paid off at work, too, showing up on time, catching cases Fowler wouldn’t have let him within a hundred yards of a year ago. Even went so far as to dig a little deeper on a cut and dry sex work homicide and uncovered a whole lot of missing cash belonging to someone who cracked the top fifty on some Fortune 500 list. Grateful, the guy had gone way overboard and promised to pay for Cole’s school supplies (fuck if Hank was going to drive him two hours in traffic to the best private school in the city) until he graduated and tuition to whatever four year college he would get into in the future (Christ, Cole wanted to be an astronaut at this point, tuition assistance would be helpful).

There was an ancient and well-maintained Camaro in his garage, and Sumo had all the doggie delicacies he could ever hope for. That, plus this ridiculous luxury family vacation, complete with first class tickets to a tropical paradise, a five star hotel and a charge card they could “do anything within reason” with. All the gifts had crossed over from gratitude to creepy a long time ago, but Hank wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

There had apparently been upwards of fifty million in the containers he’d recovered in the homicide investigation, and evidence that led to an offshore account that held a few hundred million more. He’d dodged the “dirty cop skims from evidence locker” bullet, made the right decision. Who fucking cared if he didn’t have enough sick leave or vacation days to count on ten figures? Fowler told him to get lost after a job well done, and no one said anything about canceling his pension, so he fucking went.

Anything to get away from Reed and his stupid I just got laid bullshit. If he had to hear another word about fucking Rick or whatever his name was, he probably would’ve discharged his weapon uncomfortably close to a coworker, and there would’ve gone his fucking retirement.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy,” Cole’s saying, shaking his arm, and Hank snorts to himself. Typical, spacing out the way he had when he was still expecting a drink in his hand every waking moment. Old habits died hard and all that.

“What is it, baby? You wanted to see the turtles today, right?”

Cole nods his head vigorously up and down, still chewing with his mouth open, a few bits of scrambled egg flying back onto his plate and the table. Hank’s about to tell him to wipe it up with a napkin at least, but then Cole stops grinning for a moment, swallows, and continues smiling so blindingly that Hank needs to gather himself for a second before he starts bawling at how beautiful his kid is, still perpetually happy after the shit he’s had to go through.

Hank’s already peeling from the other day, but he’ll brave the resulting sunburn for a chance to make once-in-a-lifetime memories like this. The Detroit Aquarium wasn’t anything to sneeze at, but they sure as hell wouldn’t let Cole swim alongside the turtles they had in captivity like they would here. It was technically against the law to get too close, according to the signs sprinkled along the beach, but Cole probably would be too in awe staring at them and being able to doggy paddle around in the shallows to try to touch them or pull on their fins or feed them, how they had seen some other tourists doing.

Yeah, that’s my kid, he thought, with the usual sharp burst of melancholy. Actually fucking considerate and not at all like his dad.

“I’m done,” Cole announces proudly, stretching out the vowels so the word hangs in the air. A couple at the table next to them, who sounds French, tries to communicate their amusement at Cole’s enthusiasm, Hank latching on to the one word he recognizes—cute, the woman nods to him, smiling at Cole—and replying with a mangled Merci that they giggle to themselves at.

“Okay, lemme just finish my drink, kid.” Pina colada, nothing fancy and too cliched to pass up. He hadn’t gone completely cold turkey, but the difference was nowadays he knew when to stop.

“Daddy hurry up,” Cole whines, with the same eager desperation Sumo has when Hank tells him to stop scratching at the door when he hears the word “walk”. Shit, he misses that dog. It’s only been a week, and Darlene hasn’t sent him a frantic message about Sumo running away or destroying her house, but he wants to know if the dog’s okay. Still, it’s a little silly to be asking for updates when everything’s obviously fine.

Turn off the damn cop brain and just be a normal person for five seconds.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, wiping a bit of stray slush off his beard and standing, turning towards the buffet exit and the open beach, instead running smack dab into someone wearing a suit—white—and carrying a drink—rum and coke, not white—that he first thinks is a waiter. Takes his mind a moment to catch up, no the guy’s not wearing the hotel uniform or a nametag, he’s just wearing a cream colored lightweight suit like that’s an actual thing people wear on vacation instead of shorts and socks with sandals.

“Goddamn it,” he says reflexively, then winces as he remembers he’s not exactly palling around the bullpen with someone who’s used to violently slung profanity just in time for breakfast. “Sorry, I mean, it’s my fuc—it’s my fault, buddy. You speak English?”

Foot in the mouth again, Andersen.

“Uh, yeah, actually. I do,” the guy says after a second—great, Hank’s not the only one whose social protocols have to be rebooted every time he has to deal with a stranger. “And don’t worry about it,” he adds, unconvincingly dabbing at his shirt with a cloth napkin he pulls out of somewhere, not even bothering to look up at Hank.

Okay, easy, just walk away.

Hank’s practically only in the guy’s peripheral vision, Cole taking his hand and uncertainly squinting at the guy’s jacket-covered back, when he hears the same voice say his name.

“You’re Hank Anderson. What are the odds?”

The guy’s laughing like he’s just made some major discovery, and Hank stiffens. Where did this guy—don’t call him kid, he’s an adult man, he’s just younger than you—get off knowing who he was?

“Do I owe you money or something?” he asks, instinctively pushing Cole behind him in case he’s arrested this guy without remembering it or someone this guy knows. He it’s not his job to deal with white collar, but maybe…

Dude doesn’t give off any threat of violence, but he can’t be sure. Geez, it’s like looking at another Sumo; expressive eyes, kind of eerily so. Like this kid learned facial expressions from a vintage magazine ad where the family’s all smiling and off to buy oranges or a new house or whatever.

He makes a face, hoping the guy won’t catch it. Maybe he shouldn’t have had that second drink.

“No—No, God, no. At least, I don’t think so,” the guy says. “Sorry, that was out of the blue. I’m Connor, I work Detroit PD, too.”

Hank opens his mouth to protest, really what are the odds, but this Connor sees his skeptical frown and quickly adds, “I’m actually community policing, though, just an officer, badge number—.”

“Okay, okay, I get it. It’s a big department, it’s no big miracle we’ve never crossed paths. But I believe you, sheesh,” Hank says, knowing that the kid’s got the number on the tip of his tongue and enjoying it a little too much at the flicker of frustration he sees from being interrupted.

“Are we gonna go see the turtles now?” Cole whispers, too loudly for Connor not to hear, and Hank’s about to answer, yes, before Connor pays him back one and cuts him off at the knees.

“I’m sorry. It was my fault, with the drink. And the rambling,” Connor says, pointedly not doing that weird adult thing where he kneels down to Cole’s level, and Hank doesn’t know whether it’s creepy or nice that Connor’s talking to his son and not him.

“Sure, don’t beat yourself up about it. I gotta ask, what the hell are you doing down here? It’s not exactly easy to get from Michigan to here.”

Hank likes coincidences when they lead to good arrests and solid reports; in real life, they’re unnerving.

Connor’s face brightens up, and Hank’s got to stop drawing parallels between his family and this stranger, because his memory automatically summons up Cole five minutes ago, excitedly going on about turtles.

“I’m on vacation, like you, I’m guessing. Don’t tell my boss, but I moonlight a little as private security for my cousin, Elijah. He’s hosting a green energy summit here. Well, he’s multitasking, really, there’s the meeting with that venture capitalist, too.”

Biblical names aren’t exactly Hank’s forte, but it’s an odd enough combination—businessman named Elijah—that he blurts out, “Elijah Kamski?” like he’s freshly green again and his training officer just told him to do something that there’s no procedure for in the general orders or bylaws.

“Yeah. Um, I probably shouldn’t have told you that, but I doubt you’re gonna pose a threat. Cop to cop, can you promise me you won’t try to harass, irritate or otherwise harm my cousin during his stay?”

“Yeah,” Hank croaks, wondering if it would be rude to raise an eyebrow, because this kid is the least cop-like cop he’s never had the pleasure of working with. “Yeah, no, your secret’s safe with me. Elijah Kamski, Jesus.”

“Who’s Kamski? Oh, is he that guy who makes By Night?” Cole asks, and Hank’s hand’s sweaty for some reason, so he rearranges his grip onto Cole’s wrist instead.

“Uh, is he?” Hank asks, turning to Connor for help, because he knows Kamski’s got his hands in many pies, but he’s pretty sure By Night is a video game, TV series or something a kid would be interested in, and that’s still, after five years of being a single parent, not really his forte. He sets the parental controls so that nothing excessively violent or sexual ever crosses any of their screens, and lets Cole pretty much have free reign other than that.

“Yeah, it’s one of my favorite games, too,” Connor says, and  _winks_.

Hank’s heart probably stops for a second, because, Jesus, did they 3-D print this guy from an internet search for wholesomely, devastatingly attractive 30-ish male?

Cole starts staring up in silence at Connor like he’s the Second Coming or something, and Hank thinks uh-oh. Just like the turtles, Cole probably wouldn’t stop talking about Connor until he’d spent all the time he wanted with him, which would mean he would demand a little more time investment than a ten minute conversation outside the breakfast buffet.

“Cole, baby, remember the turtles?” he tries, and tugs Cole along. Once the kid’s shoes hit the sand, he’s racing toward the water, waving at Connor and quickly shrinking over the flat beach into a Cole-shaped blob. He knows, still, that he’ll hear about Connor again at least once before dinner.

In the silence, Connor’s gone back to swiping at his jacket with a wet napkin, though he’s taken it off as a lost cause.

Hank really should learn to help himself conversationally the way he helped himself get (mostly) clean.

“You didn’t actually answer my question, about how you knew who I am.”

Connor looks up from his stained jacket and moves his lips in a bunch of complicated motions that may qualify as a smile, albeit a charmingly eccentric one.

“Your reputation precedes you. Youngest L.T. in the history of the force. The Red Ice Task Force is legendary.”

Normally, Hank would be irritated at some stranger PO listing off his accomplishments back to him (like he doesn’t fucking know them already, he did ‘em), but Connor…

There’s something about Connor; can’t help but like the guy even if you know absolutely nothing about him except what he looks like and that it takes about a billion visible facial movements to get him to smile.

“It was a long time ago,” Hank says, and the honesty in his tone isn’t masking annoyance this time. It is what it is, and that part of his life has been over for years.

“It set a foundation,” Connor says, and that’s what blows Hank away, a stranger, possibly the first one ever, to remind him he’s got a legacy at work. There were a lot of good people and some assholes on that team, but Goddamn straight, they paved the way for other cops who wanted to do more, do better, and build on what they’d managed to pull out of their asses when even Hank was still nothing more than a stupid, cocky kid with a badge.

“Thanks for being the only person who hasn’t made me feel like an old man clinging to the glory days whenever I have to smile and cringe through someone mentioning the Task Force,” he says, and Connor’s head tilts.

“You’re welcome, L.T.,” he says, then points to someplace in space behind Hank. “I think your son is waiting to take a picture before the turtle swims back out to sea. Better hurry.”

Cole is frantically waving his arms in the air like he’s calling for a distant plane, jumping off the sand and gesturing excitedly to the sea turtle slowly and steadily crawling its way across the washed up coral that litters the shore.

“Yeah, yeah, nice to meet you, Connor,” he says, turning back to Cole and feeling generally like he has nothing to complain about leaving the conversation. Maybe wishing it hadn’t ended so soon, which is new.

“Same here, L.T.,” Connor says, and Hank tries not to look like a complete idiot speed walking back to his kid, turning back a few seconds later to watch Connor either go over to the bar for a new drink or run back into the main hotel to get a new jacket like a neat freak, but by the time his eyes find the spot where Connor was last standing, all he sees are emptying tables and a waiter carrying a tray of empty drinks back to the bar.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone reconnects after their first meeting, and Connor really lets his video-game-nerd come out to play.

“Hey, stranger,” Cole drawls, like some cartoon character Hank knows ( _should_  know, more likely) on the way to dinner the next night, Connor in full black tie (what regular person knew how to tie a bow tie) outside a ballroom surrounded by a million glass panels that make the whole thing look like a giant fishbowl. Cole’s last syllable suddenly goes really high pitched, and Hank’s brow furrows in confusion, everything explained when a guy with a severe undercut and pseudo-sumo-topknot steps out from behind an obnoxiously huge floral display.

Elijah fucking Kamski, and guess who's right by his side.

“Cole. Hi, lieutenant,” Connor says, friendly but in a tone that Hank knows is full community service. Connor’s own mother could probably walk up to them right now and he’d be able to find out the best way to get her to turn around and leave him alone so he could do his job.

Cops, Hank snorts to himself. Social butterflies, all.

“This the guy you were telling me about? You don’t have to go Serious Bodyguard on him, you said he was okay,” Elijah Kamski says, as if tiny specks on the world like Hank Anderson are people who even cross his radar.

Although, Hank’s gotta hand it to him. The guy does seem involved in the fifty-something companies he runs, and that sort of efficiency can backfire if he doesn't memorize at least a few hundred names.

“Are we ready to move out?” another voice calls, and Hank turns to see a kid with a buzz cut and really blue eyes step up to shake Kamski’s hand. He’s trailed by a trio of runway models, it seems, in equally sharp suits some color between black and grey.

“He’s a comedian, this guy. It’s dinner, not a covert black ops mission. But, I guess the place’ll be stocked with enough security it’ll sure as hell feel like it. Uh—Anderson and Anderson Junior,” Kamski says, and Cole giggles at the title, “Markus Manfred and his three wives: North, Josh, and Simon.”

“Board of directors, actually,” Markus clarifies, but doesn’t explicitly correct the “wives” statement, and Hank blinks. That’s a lot of pretty people and a lot of logistics involved. “If you’re ever in the market for a home healthcare assistant, that’s us.”

With the second silver tsunami a couple decades ago, the numbers of lonely and aging seniors seemed to be growing exponentially with the world population. Made sense someone who catered to those needs would make it to a swanky business conference or whatever it was that Kamski was currently a part of down here.

“Started out as an artist, if you could believe it, but after his dad started getting old, he realized that being CEO of a compassionate care company was the way to go,” Kamski says, though he’s already jetting off to wherever dinner is, the line of cars out front the first hint that it’s probably nowhere near here.

“That’s…oversimplification,” Markus says, but he’s probably used to genius eccentrics blowing him off, so he doesn’t do anything more than roll his eyes at Kamski and shake Hank’s hand. Josh leans in to shake his hand, too, but Hank hovers awkwardly as North and Simon make it a point to be almost comically absorbed in their phones. They’ve probably shaken enough today to spread thousands of petri dishes of bacteria around, so he gets that they can skip the formal introductions.

“Excuse us,” Markus says, waving at them and picking up a clipboard from an assistant, back to business because every moment in the rat race counts, even when you’re the boss.

The thought makes Hank’s skin crawl, and he’s fucking glad that his rank is practically a dime a dozen nowadays. He prefers partners to subordinates anyway, and that’s saying something because after Cole’s mom died he’s scared off pretty much every partner he was ever assigned.  

“Daddy, Connor left without saying goodbye,” Cole says, slapping him on the thigh to get his attention. Jesus, at least he’ll never have to worry about Cole asserting himself if he needs something.

“He’s workin’, baby, you know, I get like that, too, when I’m on the phone with Fowler. The couple a times you’ve come to the bullpen with me, you’ve heard me cuss out Reed.”

“That’s cuz Reed’s an asshole,” Cole says in a deep voice, laughing even louder as Hank grumbles and tries to clamp a hand over his mouth.

They’re halfway through waiting their turn to see the hostess in the restaurant when Cole looks up from the game he’s playing on Hank’s phone and says, apropos of nothing, “Well, Gavin might be mean, but Connor’s not. I like Connor. He has a nice smile.”

“Um, yeah, baby,” Hank says, throat tight, thinking of Connor and his son talking about video games and that stupid, charming wink. “He seems like a pretty cool guy.”

 

 

 

“You’re the dorkiest person I’ve ever met,” Hank says incredulously, rifling through what feels like a mountain of video game containers on Connor’s hotel bed.

 _That escalated quickly_ , he thinks, blushing to himself at the thought of being invited into Connor’s room, though not in this context, obviously. They were here to play video games, to make up for what Connor called being “severely impolite” and trailing after Kamski without another word. Seemed the entire universe was conspiring against Hank's sanity, with another chance meeting in the lobby after Kamski's posse returned from wherever it is that rich people eat on a tropical island full of expensive gourmet restaurants.

“You know it’s midnight, and Cole’s got a bedtime, right,” he grouses, just because he doesn’t want to look like an idiot who can’t work a controller with only eight buttons on it.

“I don’t got a bedtime, it’s vacation, Daddy’s lying,” Cole cheers, jumping up and down on the mattress and sending a few plastic cases flying. “Oops,” he says guiltily, scrambling onto the floor to pick them up. “Sorry, Connor.”

“It’s okay, champ, none of them are broken,” Connor says, the old-fashioned video game console on the entertainment center whirring to life behind him. “So, which do you want to start with first? I remember you said _By Night_ was your favorite, but I’ve got more than one favorite, so maybe you have others, too?”

Cole looks up at him with the starriest expression Hank’s ever seen, and he knows that both of them are doomed.

“Yeah!” Cole says. “Let’s play _By Night_ and _Halo_ and _Level 12_ until the sun comes up!”

“Level 12?” Hank manages to ask, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Multiplayer zombie apocalypse game. Graphics aren’t great, but the—.”

“The story’s awesome,” Cole finishes, and Hank will personally drain every single bottle of the not-unimpressive, ridiculously expensive mini-bar if they start talking in unison the whole night.

“You’ve got work in the morning,” he reminds Connor, unhelpfully sounding like a nag even to his own ears. As if he’s ever cared about showing up to work on time a day in his life. “And why aren’t you sleeping in your cousin The-Elijah-Kamski's room, protecting him from unseen threats and all?”

Connor proves he has expressions other than Default Happy and Mildly Pleasant, glaring at Hank at the mention of work. It would probably be terrifying if it wasn't so cute.

“My younger brother Nines is with him. Elijah’s a big boy, though. Can usually talk himself out of whatever crisis he’s worked himself into this week, even if it involves imminent danger or death.”

“They don’t put that in the papers,” Hank winces. “But makes sense. Guy’s got a big bank account; can’t do that without making enemies.”

Connor hums thoughtfully.

“Wait," Hank sputters, mind catching up with what's going on. "What the hell kinda name is Nines?”

“Dad convinced Mom on the second kid to name another one after the family name. He’s actually Charles the Ninth, so Nines. In retaliation, Mom named our other brothers Christopher and Callum, to have four c’s.”

“Intense,” Hank chuckles, then, “Yeah, I’m a Henry the Third, I get it.”

“What’s wrong with names that start with ‘c’? You named me Cole, ‘member?” Cole breaks in, and Hank realizes his hand’s settled over Connor’s on the wireless controller he was handing to him.

“There’s nothing wrong with names that start with ‘c’,” Connor says, before Hank can open his mouth, and Hank’s heart’s beating a million miles a minute.

 _Lub-dub. Uh-oh, uh-oh, uhohuhohuhohuhoh_.

“So, we’re loading _Level 12_?”

Cole vigorously shakes his head up and down, bouncing from excitement as he settles onto the bed facing the TV, leaning into Connor as the main menu—a bloody skeleton with rotting flesh hanging off it and too many screaming sound effects—pops up.

“I always get a little scared by it,” Cole explains, making a face, but Connor doesn’t freak out about getting jumped on.

“You wanna turn the volume down? Just till we get a little more confident?” Connor asks, and Hank props himself up against the headboard, trying not to feel like he’s intruding.

Cole purses his lips in thought.

“Uh, no, that’s okay. I think I’m okay, at least until we get to the jungle bridge.”

“Okay, we’ll watch out for the jungle bridge then,” Connor smiles, lightly leaning his shoulder back onto Cole’s.

He turns, suddenly remembering Hank, and the controller still hanging lazily from Hank’s lax fingers.

“We can set it for up to four players, if you wanna sit next to Cole. The screen display will be a little small, but I think we can work with it.”

Hank weighs saying something pathetic like “No, I’ll just watch”, but doesn’t want to come off as weird or uncooperative to rotting his kid’s brain with animated zombies and no-bedtime rules.

“Yeah, sure, how do I work this controller thing again?” he says, and Connor laughs brightly, not even bothering to cover it up.

“Here’s how you walk, and here’s jump—Uh, you have to push these two buttons together. Yeah, that’s it!”

Connor seems as excited teaching Hank how to manipulate the anatomically impossibly buff character onscreen as Cole was taking about a thousand pictures with the turtles the other day, and Hank can’t help but grin at the thought.

“Hank, are you paying attention?” Connor asks, and Hank croaks, “Yeah, yeah, jump this way. Joystick for turning the camera.”

Pauses.

“Hey. You didn’t call me L.T.”

Connor’s head cocks, birdlike.

“Yeah, I guess I didn’t. Hank.”

Hank’s still staring at him with fucking Smitten Vision when Connor physically steps in, turning him back to the TV with a surprising amount of strength. 

Shit, Hank thinks, Well, I wasn't expecting _that_.

“Hank, Hank, you’re getting—Okay, you’re getting attacked. Uh, your gun’s this button.”

The TV lets out a shrill whine and another hair-raising scream, Hank’s corner of the screen going blank soon after.

“Um, your player died,” Connor says, but Cole lets out a loud whoop, shooting to his feet and jumping around the bed.

“And Cole's clearly didn’t. High score, buddy, great job,” Hank laughs, and Connor starts up too, both of them high-fiving Cole, who shows no signs of settling down any time soon.

“Hey, your character didn’t even make it out of the gate,” he tells Connor, who puts his controller down, shakes his head.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m just glad you guys are having fun." He pauses for a moment, and Hank can tell he's working himself up to say something.

"I didn’t mean to be strange about it," Connor tells him, low enough so Cole probably won't be able to hear. "We just met the other day, but I didn't want to make a bad impression, by just walking away with Eli like that and not even saying goodbye. Even if you did spill a drink on me at the breakfast buffet.”

Hank snorts. Jesus, the sass on this kid.

“Let’s get this clear, Con. I don’t even know your last name, but you seem like a nice guy. Trust me, if it was weird, I wouldn’t care that you’re a cop, I’d fucking let you know.”

Connor grins for a second, then shrugs, as if a weight’s fallen off his shoulders.

“Thanks,” he says, and squeezes Hank’s shoulder for a second before letting go.

One of the longest fucking second’s in Hank’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I had to do the weird thing and change Nines's name.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank encounters a little roadblock to his Getting Closer to Connor plans.

“I can’t believe you’re going back to Detroit so soon,” Hank says, stalling the whine in his voice before it goes full-blown early-2000s rom-com. He clears his throat to cover it. “It took us nearly 36 hours to get down here, but then again, I was a cheapskate and booked coach.” Scratching the back of his neck, he uses the movement as an excuse to avoid Connor’s eyes.

Probably glad to be rid of the sad old loner.

_Sorry you had to leave before I could hold your hand and stare into your eyes_. Ugh.

“It’s admirable that you’re not letting the money go to your head,” Connor says, smile in his voice, and Hank looks up so quick he nearly gets whiplash.

“I saw some of the articles they published in the paper and the police union bulletin. You really rescued that billionaire. It’s…considerate…that you’re concerned about overspending when the guy’s worth more than the entire state pension system.”

“You really do follow me in the news, huh, kid?” he asks, and the corner of Connor’s mouth pulls up, a much more natural quirk than he’d displayed the day they first met.

“You’re impressive,” Connor whispers, as if that’s a thing that real human beings are allowed to say to starry eyed old men who might just have a crush on them.

Cole, having just returned from the snack bar with three bags of dried cranberries and a soda—a passable lunch, if Hank’s ever seen one—looks between them, anticipation clear on his face. “What are we gonna do today, Connor? Don’t you have to work?”

And Hank hates, hates how much this seems like a familiar sorry-to-disappoint-you tableaux, as Connor sits down on the marble ledge of the lobby’s terrarium display and puts a consoling hand on Cole’s shoulder.

“I do, actually, back in Detroit. I’ve already burned through most of my vacation days, and Eli’s going back, so he’s taking me home, too.”

“Oh,” Cole says, brow furrowing, staring at his shoes.

Hank wishes he’d had more functional adult relationships in the past decade to compare it to, maybe made more of an effort to interact with Cole’s friends from school or their parents, because he has no idea how to make this situation better other than awkwardly hover over them with a comforting hand on his son’s shoulder.

“But that doesn’t mean we can’t still hang out when we’re back in Michigan,” Connor says, and it breaks Hank’s heart how tentatively Cole meets Connor’s gaze, how soft his voice is as he asks, “Really?”

“Yeah, buddy, really—Hey, of course,” Connor is quick to say, falling into the hug that Cole spontaneously offers him. Hank notices no stiffness in his arms or tension in his expression, and thinks, so that’s what a product of loving family looks like.

The sensible part of him tells him it doesn’t matter fuck-all what things appear to be (Connor’s family could’ve been just as dysfunctional as Hank’s own, despite his happy tone when talking about “Mom” or “Dad” during video game night), but he still wonders where all that compassion came from. Cops these days could have it, sure, but it got eaten up real quick when they tried to weigh practicality against what their hearts told them they should be doing.

Maybe Connor was just special or something. Hank thought it’d mark him as too much the judgmental old guard if he asked outright how many years Connor had on the force.

Can’t be that many, he thinks, Connor still hugging his kid, who’s clinging like he doesn’t want to let go, despite Connor’s promise of getting in touch back in Detroit. God, this moment could be used in one of those commercials that are supposed to make you cry.

Get your head out of your ass, Anderson.

“Really, really,” Connor continues to reassure, and then gets something out of his pocket—a business card, Hank sees. It’s a neat white card with blue lettering that mentions the DPD, his badge number, and the rank in charge. Hank snorts at the contact info for the complaint hotline below the default Crimestoppers number.

Taking a pen out, too (Hank would bet dollars to donuts Connor had a pocket protector back in the day when he was innocent enough to think that would fly), Connor adds in next to his PO information: Video Game Buddy. He flips the thing over to the blank side and writes something so quickly Hank’s aging eyes don’t catch it, handing Cole the card.

“You’re one of the only people I know who realizes how awesome Level 12 is, so we’ve gotta get together to finish the last five missions, okay?” he says, Cole nodding like an overeager bobblehead.

“Come on, lazybones, smoke break’s over!” a voice shouts, and Hank tracks the now-familiar snaking line of Important People trickling out into the hotel’s front entrance, where a line of gleaming black taxis are waiting to take them to the private airstrip on the north side of the island. Hank had recognized it from the air on the flight in, and snorted at the privilege of it all. In a place meant to cater to the rich and famous, they still insisted on further exclusivity.

“We don’t get smoke breaks, Nines,” Connor says, his mouth flat.

“That’s right, so stop fraternizing and get your ass over here or Eli’s gonna be late. Time is money.”

“He owns the charter company, he can never be late,” Connor points out, his brother giving Hank a once-over in the few fractions of a second it takes for Connor to disentangle himself from Cole.

“Cute kid,” Nines, Charlie, whatever the fuck his name is, comments to Hank, as if Cole isn’t fully capable of interacting with adults on his own.

“Uh, thanks, but I’m down here,” Cole says, before Hank can open his mouth and firmly insert his foot, thank Christ.

Nines looks at Cole without bothering to get to eye-level with him, and nods, “Duly noted.” Turning on his heel before Hank can process what’s just happened—who the fuck talked like that anymore—Nines gestures over his shoulder for Connor to join him.

Nervously—nervously?—straightening his already perfect tie, Connor opens his mouth as if to say something and decides against it, waving instead.

“See you, Con,” Hank says, and watches for a long time as he walks away.

 

 

 

He’s sitting by the hotel pool a few hours later, at Cole’s insistence, hurriedly tossing everything not strictly waterproof onto the relative safety of the lounge chairs a few feet away as strangers’ kids send water flying in all directions. Phone, wallet, was the magnetic key card sensitive to water?

Cole had given him Connor’s business card with a solemn order of  _Don’t lose it, Dad_ , and Hank’s hand fumbles over the little square of paper now, folding it under the towel so it won’t blow away. But then, his eyes land on that bit of writing he hadn’t been able to catch before.

_To Hank_ , it says, and a phone number whose first three are associated with cells, not the department landline printed on the front of the card.

Well, shit, Hank thinks, because Connor’s handwriting is pretty terrible, but it was the spirit of the thing. Was this flirting? If he’d wanted Cole to have the number, it would’ve said  _To Cole_  instead.

Man, stop making this so high school, Hank grouses internally, burying the offending card beneath their towels as planned.

“Daddy,” Cole says, hurling a handful of water at him, soaking his shorts. “What are you doin’?”

“Nothing,” Hank says, too fast. Guilty.

“Okay,” Cole shrugs, and tugs at Hank’s t-shirt, unbalancing him for a second before Hank’s reflexes take over, tell him to right himself. Even more determined, Cole tugs harder, and Hank finally gets a clue, taking one for the team and sliding into the shallow kiddie pool fully clothed.

_You got a second chance at being a dad. Don’t fuck it up_.

Spitting chlorinated water out like a fountain, he rears up, snatches Cole into his arms, and tosses him back into the water to Cole’s delighted laughter.

Freshly sunburnt and wrinkled to all hell by the time the sun sets and the pool closes down for the night, he’s happy enough to forget about that card until it flutters out of the towel as he wraps a shivering Cole into the striped fabric that’d probably be soft enough to sleep in.

“H-Hey, don’t lose that I said,” Cole points out, Hank making a show of drying his hands so he doesn’t smudge the ink, picking the card off the chair and carefully slipping it into his phone case.

“Don’t worry, baby. It’s safe with me.”

 

 

 

“Sumo hasn’t torn up your house yet?” Hank says incredulously, and Darlene laughs.

“Not really. He’s got two playmates in the backyard all day, so Micky’s petunias are another story, but all in all, he’s been a total angel.”

“Don’t believe you.”

“Okay, fine,” Darlene snorts. “He dug up a few holes and presented me a dead bird from who-knows-where, but other than that, he’s been a total angel. You better watch your back, or Mick’s gonna start suggesting we keep him on full time.”

A few years ago, Hank would’ve been low enough he’d probably try to cuss his former colleague out and then agree with her because he wouldn’t have had the time to focus on anything else save self-pity, much less an overweight St. Bernard. But he’s a totally different fucking person today, so all he does is cuss her out and tell her he’ll take the dog back as long as he doesn’t make the dead bird thing a habit.

Wasn’t bringing home prey a cat thing?

“Yeah, yeah, tough guy. Since, despite everything I know about you, I still like you, I’m gonna give you a head’s up for what to expect on the work front when you get back. Word around the admin assistant pool is that Fowler’s got a hair up his ass about a bunch of new cases your office probably doesn’t have any hope of clearing. He sent Janine home in tears two days in a row.”

Hank nearly rolls his eyes. They both know that Fowler’s assistant probably deserved it, after having suffered her bumbling antics for years on end themselves, but still. Fowler wasn’t usually a dick to civilian employees if he could help it; his logic was that cops were supposed to be able to handle the bullshit, or so he claimed.

He knows he shouldn’t ask, but it’s not like Darlene’s just throwing it out there for him to say no. She knows him well enough to know that he won’t leave it alone, and honestly, going in blind next Monday probably wouldn’t be a great idea if Jeff’s acting like he’s about to have a coronary.

“Four dead Cyberlife employees. There’s a shit ton of leads from hostile pro-privacy groups, even from the Parents Say No to Tech non-profit. You know, the ones from the news? Their club president or whatever hired an attorney, and it looks bad for them, but you never know.”

“No physical evidence, I’m guessing,” Hank says, rubbing at his temples. Cops might have the advantage of advanced forensic techniques nowadays, but someone tell him they actually knew how to do old-fashioned legwork.

“I heard Reed’s looking through financials. One of my division guys, you know Harper, Reed was leaning on him to go through Say No To Tech’s books to see if they were using donations to pay someone desperate enough to do the deed. If anything, Harper says there’s a lot of undeclared assets floating around, so maybe the IRS’ll get them if we don’t.”

“Well, like you said, you never know,” Hank sighs, pushing the drink in front of him away. So much for a stress-free night, he thinks, though the irritation dissolves quickly as he hears Cole snort and shift in his sleep. He closes the balcony door a bit more so the rest of their conversation won’t disturb him any more.

“So, we’re gonna leave it with me saying I’m planning to steal your dog, please and thank you,” Darlene laughs, hanging up before Hank can really start in on swearing like a sailor.

Still, his mood sobers quickly, going over Darlene’s helpful hints about what’s waiting for him in the office.

Cyberlife.

Balancing the phone below his chin, he thinks on the name. AI tech, digital assistants, virtual reality. Video games, judging by Connor’s console, and the packaging for the games Cole had played the other night.

Kamski.

He remembers meeting Connor, thinking about coincidences and how he needed to stop making so much out of them, but even someone who wasn’t a detective had to admit it was a little weird. Him suddenly and miraculously crossing paths with a rich guy who had four newly dead bodies to his company name.

Just another day at the office, is what his training officer used to say.

Leaning back in his chair, he listens to the sound of the waves breaking against the shore.

At least with Connor, he knew he had a potential in, if Fowler inevitably dropped those cases on his desk. Reed sure as shit didn’t have as high a closing rate as he did, even half-inebriated.

He could only hope another body wouldn’t pop up by the time this little vacation was over.

Tapping the business card in his hand—wondering, should I call—against the balcony table, he reasons that Connor was another cop. He’d understand Hank’s curiosity, and give him the time to interview Kamski to see if he knew anything.

Yeah, that’s why you want to call. Keep telling yourself that, he scoffs to himself, sliding out of his chair and back into the room.

Though it’s quiet once he closes the balcony door, if he uses his imagination, he can still hear the soft rhythm of the sea.


End file.
